Cemented Relationship

By L. B. Frazier

LB Fraziers second book is a mystery that takes place in the mountain town of Julian, California. Although, the story is fictional, it is based on a real event that took place in another state. It is a tragic tale of a missing woman who had flown to Hawaii to attend an art seminar and never returnedor did she.

A close friend comes to town to help the womans daughter search for her. She finds herself working with the local Sheriff of the small mountain town. The town is shocked to find out that there is a sociopath in their midst, as well as up-standing citizens of their town involved in one of the largest drug operations in the San Diego county.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462877898

L. B. Frazier

LB Frazier is a retired health care professional, who has had the long time desire to write. Her first book is a fictional crime story, based on a real event. Her love for reading books of mysteries and true crime stories have made her aware of the large sections of people who love them as well. Civilized people love to read about the unthinkable acts of others. They enjoy the intrigue and the challenges of the ‘what, why and how’ crime happens. They believe that these crimes could never happen to them. Crime happens to innocent people every day and probably every minute of each day. The question of what draws innocent people into situations involving the not-so innocent people has been the magnet that drew LB Frazier to delve into research for her first book. LB Frazier lives in the Northwest surrounded by her husband and their six children, fifteen grandchildren and over 20 great grandchildren.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by L. B. Frazier.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011908464

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4628-7788-1

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4628-7787-4

ISBN: Ebook          978-1-4628-7789-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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93355

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Prologue

Cathy trudged up the sidewalk. The white-hot sun beat down in her face. She could feel the perspiration trickle down her back, between her shoulder blades and down between her breasts. Her thick dark hair, strewn with silver streaks, was pulled together at the nap of her neck with a barrette. Wisps of damp hair had worked loose and hung clinging to her cheeks.

Cathy aimed her key at the lock on her front door, only to have her slight touch cause the door to swing silently open. Alarmed, she stepped back quickly. Why would the door be open? she wondered. She remembered locking it that very morning when she’d left for her stroll downtown to the post office. Or did I? She had a habit of locking her doors, even though most in this town did not feel the need. Living in larger towns during the early years of her marriage had made her feel uncomfortable doing otherwise. For a brief moment, the thought flicked through her mind that her daughter might be home, but then she quickly remembered that Karla had gone back with her boyfriend to San Diego where they shared an apartment. They had left yesterday afternoon.

This wasn’t the first time that she had thought she had done something only to find out that she hadn’t, or to find objects in places where she didn’t remember placing them. Sometimes she felt like she had Alzheimer’s.

This is silly, Cathy said, and pushed the door open. Nevertheless, she crept slowly into the house. Even though it was still midafternoon, the inside of the house was obscured by the pulled shades that kept out the rays of the hot sun. Shadows that had gone unnoticed before now loomed mysteriously in every corner. She walked slowly across the threshold and into the living room. Glancing deep into the room and finding no one there, she crossed quickly to the window and raised the shades. Prisms of light flooded in through the panes, catching particles of dust dancing through their rays.

After checking through all the rooms, Cathy relaxed. Pulling off her damp shirt, she headed for the bathroom, deciding that a cool refreshing shower would help erase the oppressiveness and put her in a better mood. She tugged off her slacks and threw them into the white wicker clothes hamper. She slid her hand inside the shower curtain and groped for the faucets and turned them on. She held her hand under the running water, periodically adjusting it to a tepid, almost cool temperature. Letting the water run, she stripped off her bra and panties and climbed into the shower. Tipping back her head, she let the water splash over her face, cooling her skin, and washing away the salty sweat and grime of the day.

A short time later, bare footed, she padded into the kitchen, deciding that what she needed was a cool drink. Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a fresh lime and a chilled bottle of tonic water. She opened the cupboard door near the sink and pulled out a water glass. Just as suddenly, she put it back, and with determination etched on her face, she walked to the china cabinet and got out a crystal cocktail glass. The set had been given to her and Donald as a wedding gift from his parents. They had used them on every special occasion such as to toast their anniversary. She knew now that life could be very short, too short. She promised herself she would start living each day to its fullest and silently vowed to pamper herself more.

Gin and tonic in one hand, she clutched at her lightweight, cotton robe with the other. In the living room, she crossed to her favorite overstuffed chair and plopped down letting the soft billowy cushions envelop her. She stretched her legs across the hassock in front. Sitting there, she let her thoughts wander.

Seeing the sheriff’s office, on her walk earlier, had brought back the dark memories of the day when she first had personal dealings with Sheriff Hunter; the tragic day when she had found the body of her husband, Donald, several hours after he had fallen off their roof onto a pile of lumber.

Cathy had gone to San Diego with two of her friends on that spring day. It was on a Friday the thirteenth, a superstitious day for some. For her it had been just another beautiful day. They had made a memorable day of it, shopping, lunching on the patio of a chic restaurant, browsing through boutiques, deploring the outrageous prices but knowing that deep down, each one of them longed to be wealthy enough to afford to be that frivolous. A bright, sunny day of fun and leisure that her husband had encouraged her to take had turned out to be a dark day of regret.

She remembered how she had rushed into the house, calling out to Donald that she was home, dumping her packages on the sofa, and kicking off her shoes before going in search of him. He had taken the day off from work, planning on doing some more remodeling of their house. According to her husband, the challenge of revamping the old house was therapeutic and a pleasant reprieve from his work. Cathy had opened the screen door and gone jauntily down the steps to the backyard. Calling out to him, her words were broken off as she spotted him lying across the pile of lumber.

Her memories were like a Technicolor film in slow motion. She could remember running the short distance to him, feeling as though she was running through knee-deep water, her mouth open in a silent scream as she saw his stillness. His lips were blue and his skin cold and lifeless as she shook him, calling his name. She had run back to the house and frantically called 911 and then run back to him. Struggling to remember her training, she had willed her brain to think, then began CPR, being careful not to move his neck.

Since the accident, Cathy continued receiving vivid images of Donald, lying on the wood with his head in a pool of dark coagulated blood. She still saw the shroud of black flies that swarmed over his face dipping into his blood then crawling over his face, leaving trails. His mouth had been partially, open and she’d watched in horror as a fly crawled from within. She continued to see the old ladder that he’d fallen from, gray with age, lying on its side nearby, its top wooden step splintered, exposing white virgin wood that mocked her.

Foggy, but still there, were the memories of the ambulance and paramedics and fire trucks arriving. The sheriff had talked with her, but now, she couldn’t remember what questions he’d asked or how she had answered. At some point, she had to have realized that Donald was dead. Thinking about it now, she knew that he must have died shortly after she had left with her friends. Sheriff Hunter had figured that Donald had fallen when the top rung of the ladder broke, causing him to fall backward, striking his head on the stack of two-by-fours below. The doctor had tried to reassure her that her husband had been knocked unconscious and would have never felt any pain. Somehow, that information was still not very comforting.

Thud!

Startled, Cathy jumped. Cold liquid sloshed over the rim of her glass and onto her hand. A single drop trickled down her chest and wound its way down between her breasts, going unnoticed. Listening, she raised quietly, her eyes wide with fright, darting about the room. During her reverie, the evening hours had crept in, enveloping the room in dark shadows. Cathy quickly turned on the lamp closest to her, illuminating the room in a blast and making her feel vulnerable in its harshness. She moved quickly to the windows and pulled down the shades.

Thud!

The muted sound seemed to be coming from the kitchen area. She made her way softly toward the kitchen and at the edge of it, snaked her hand around the door’s frame and flicked on the light before entering the room. The empty kitchen glared back at her. The gin bottle stood on the counter with the bowl of melting ice nearby, mocking her.

Thud!

Meooow!

Tiger! Cathy exclaimed, her fear diminishing. She walked quickly across the kitchen to the door. The sound of her bare feet slapping against the linoleum sliced through the stillness. Tiger was her independent tabby cat, who only came home when it suited him. He was content to hunt mice and sometime went for days without eating from his dish. Occasionally, he would come home with one of his furry creatures dangling from his mouth, dutifully offering it with pride. Cathy faithfully put out food and fresh water each day, content to enjoy Tiger’s rare moments of affection.

Opening the door, she stared out onto the back porch were Donald, when they had first moved into the house, had made a swinging cat door that allowed Tiger to get into the porch by himself where he was protected from the elements. Her eyes scanned beneath the small worktable that she used to transplant her flowers on, checking amongst the stacked clay pots and bags of mulch. Cathy looked in the corner where Tiger’s bed sat. The wicker basket was filled with a red and black flannel-covered pad, empty now, except for clinging cat hairs.

Thud!

Meooow!

Thud!

The piercing scream of the cat raised the hairs on the back of Cathy’s neck. Startled, she swung around crashing backward into the edge of the open door. The door slammed into the wall behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest, sending blood rushing to her head, making her dizzy, and leaving her with a roaring in her ears. The sound had come from behind. A few moments of terror went by before the rules of logic kicked in. Shit! she said, realizing that the cat had somehow gotten himself locked in the basement. I’ll kill him when I get a hold of him, she said through clenched teeth.

Cathy jerked the basement door open, expecting the cat to bolt out the door. When it didn’t, she figured that Tiger’s screech meant that he most likely had gotten himself tangled up in something.

She flicked on the light switch just inside the door and started down the steps, clinging to the banister attached to the wall, and staying away from the side without rails. Tiger! Come here, Tiger, she called, as she cautiously went down the steps.

Cathy, before Donald’s death, had always prided herself on her fearlessness. She had never been one to be afraid of the dark or to have nightmares after watching scary movies, but now, since her husband’s death, neuroses had started to crop up—one, being her fear of the basement. It still gave her an eerie feeling with its dark corners seeming to loom mysteriously. Before, the most frightening aspect had been the black widow spiders she knew lurked in the dark recesses. Now, it was more than spiders. The old house had developed creaks and squeaks that seemed to echo from the basement. This past winter, every time the furnace kicked on or off, she would jump, and no matter how much she admonished herself on her skittishness, she still jumped.

The basement of the old house had small narrow windows near the top of the ceilings that opened inward. There were concrete steps that led outside to the backyard through and overhead door. A wooden bar slid across its front through steel brackets on the inside, which prevented it from being opened from the outside. An old coal chute remained attached to one window and threaded its way down into a small room that previously served as a coal bin. When Cathy and Donald moved into the fifty-year-old house, they had cleaned the small coal room and made it into Donald’s photography lab. After a few years, the hobby had palled, and the room had become a storage room for all the refuse of the household.

The light over the stairwell was diffuse, barely reaching the guts of the basement. Cathy stopped halfway down the steps and stared off into the darkness in hopes of seeing Tiger. She saw that the door to the darkroom was partially open. Tiger! Tiger! Come here, kitty.

Cathy stepped off the last step onto the basement floor. Off to the right, toward the darkroom, was the main area of the basement. A twelve-foot square wool rug, its wine-colored threadbare border surrounding a bed of large muted flowers, sectioned off the area once used as a rumpus room. Old, overstuffed furniture from a bygone era was scattered around the rug. Along one wall stood a bar with three barstools placed in front. An antique Budweiser sign hung over the bar, lending a poignant atmosphere to the scene. At one time, the room had been used quite a bit, but since Karla had grown up, it was seldom used. Donald and Cathy had stopped throwing parties by the time Karla became old enough to entertain. In the past ten years, when they did entertain, they preferred to invite a few friends in for informal dinners or for cards, and preferred the quiet homey atmosphere of the upstairs.

Cathy crossed the room and flicked on the lamp standing beside the overstuffed chair. It sent its shadowy light across the room. Her eyes flicked across the dancing lights, searching out the shadows before crossing to the other side. The stairwell separated the recreation room from the laundry area and Donald’s workbench. She scanned the open area first, leaving the dark room for later. She searched among the bags of cement mix and behind an old oak wine vat. Seeing the vat triggered nostalgic memories of her and Donald buying it at an antique sale. Their intent was to cut it in half, lengthwise, making it into flowerpots for the front porch. They had never gotten around to it.

In the dim light, she spotted Tiger’s tail poking out from behind. Tiger, what are you doing back there? Cathy asked, as she squatted down to coax him out. It took only moments for her to realize something was wrong. Tiger’s tail was not moving. What the heck! She tried to pull the vat out of the way but couldn’t budge it. She got down on her knees and peered around the other side. A dark thick puddle of ooze surrounded the cat. She touched the sticky substance with her finger and raised it to her nose to sniff. The light jumped off her finger, flashing a hue of red. Shocked, she lurched closer for a look. The cat’s head was smashed beyond recognition, and its body was a pulpy mess.

What? she exclaimed. Sitting back in horror, she clasped her fingers over her mouth, stifling a yelp. The sticky goo hit her lips. Repulsed, she jerked her hands down and jumped up, attempting to rush toward the stairs, only to be shoved roughly back. She fell hard. Scrambling up, she looked at the shadowy form looming above her in disbelief. What are you doing? Who— She gasped.

The form loomed menacingly toward her. A dim light coming from behind, silhouetted the figure, and left the face in darkness. The arms were raised; a heavy object wielded menacingly above. Heavy, breathy tones escaped unseen lips. Undetermined ownership of fetid breath from fear mixed with the acrid coppery smell of the cat’s blood wafted through the air. The object swung toward Cathy. She ducked and rolled away from the form. She scrambled to get her feet under her, clawing and grappling to get out of the way, only to be jerked backward as a hand caught her robe. She felt the garment’s belt loosen. Yanking herself forward, her arms slipped from the robe and naked she struggled to regain her balance only to have her head forced back by a yank of her hair and an arm wrap around her throat.

Cathy clutched at the arm, struggling to breathe. With her other hand, she clawed at the face of the monster that held her. Her little finger hooked onto a chain, cutting into the web of her hand. She grabbed at it, closing it into her fist and ignoring the pain. Tugging and twisting, she tried to gain a hold, but the chain ripped loose and skittered across the floor with a force that released her momentarily.

Before Cathy could regain her balance, a glancing blow struck her in the back and she fell heavily to her knees, her momentum propelling her forward. Instinctively, she flung her arms forward to protect her face. She felt her right elbow buckle, as excruciating pain registered. The side of her head stuck the concrete floor with a sickening thud.

She struggled awkwardly and futilely to get to the stairwell. With wild terror she watched through blurred vision at the form lurching toward her, the light now illuminating the face of the figure.

No? Cathy cried out.

The blow crashed into her shoulder, knocking her again to the floor. The pain nauseating her as the fight ebbed out of her body. Cathy looked up at her assailant and a deep sadness enveloped her. Resigned, she quietly asked, Why?

The form raised a mallet slowly overhead. Cathy watched cold glaring eyes transform to mirth, and the mouth gaped open and emitted a grotesque bark, Die, bitch!

Thunk!

Thunk!

Thunk!

Chapter 1

Exhaustion consumed Lori. The last few months she had put in twelve-hour days, seven days a week, only to rush home each night and fall exhausted into bed. Most of the time, she would lie there, tossing and turning, unable to completely shut off her mind to the flood of work that still needed to be done. Real estate was a feat or famine profession—lately, a feast.

Lori, a real estate saleswoman in the small community of Eureka, California, had spent numerous hours listing and selling real estate the past few years. Lately, there had been a siege of buying. When the earthquake struck, much damage was done, particularly in nearby Ferndale, causing people to put their property up for sale. Now, enough time had gone by, that the frightful memories of the shaking earth and crashing dishes had diminished. People who had always longed to live near the ocean were eager to buy up the properties that just months ago had flooded the market with little prospect of selling. Lori had worked long exhausting hours and needed a break. What she figured would be a relaxing two week break from her work was about to become more stressful than the whole of the past few months.

Looking at her watch, she realized that she had been asleep over two hours and the plane would be landing soon. She straightened at her plaid blazer, pulling at the bunched up linen that had wriggled its way up and lay wrinkled above her hips. Unsnapping her seat belt she lifted her hips up and smoothed the blazer down. The taupe-colored linen slacks, which matched the plaid of her blazer, now had deep creases, damp with perspiration. Digging into her purse, she pulled out her compact and snapped open the lid. She ran her hand through her thick chestnut hair. It was cut smartly in a blunt style at chin length. Hazel eyes that were filled with sleep looked back at her. She grimaced at her puffed eye lids. The skin at the side of her face was imprinted with the crisscrossed mark of the upholstery fabric. Lori smoothed at the marks with her fingers. Wetting her finger with her tongue, she wiped at the drool line, before pulling the cap off a coral lipstick and applying it to generous lips.

The overhead sign lit up, announcing that the passengers should secure their seat belts. Soon after, the captain’s voice filtered throughout the coach from some mysterious unseen depths of the plane, announcing that they would be landing in about fifteen minutes. Lori peered out of her window. The water below sparkled like diamonds, reflecting its brightness in shimmering waves. Minutes later, Lori’s stomach lurched. The pressure tugged at her as the plane tipped to its side. As the pilot lined the plane up with the runway, a molten river of silver could be seen, stretching out from the shore where it ended in a blob, much like the mercury of a thermometer. As it came closer, she could see that it was Silver Strand Boulevard, running along the narrow peninsula between Imperial Beach and North Island. As she watched, the bulb slowly became the Naval Air Station, with its runways dotted with airplanes.

As the plane descended, the peninsula disappeared, and she could see the San Diego International airport below. Subconsciously, she held her breath and grabbed tightly to the armrests. Not until the plane had safely touched down and she could feel that the wheels had locked to the ground, did she release her grip. A soft whoosh of air expelled from her lips.

Lori glanced at the clock on the dash and then at her watch. It was already four thirty. It would be dusk or completely dark by the time she arrived at Julian, a small mountain town some seventy miles away. It would be at least a two-hour drive or longer during rush hour—if she was lucky. It seemed to take her forever to get her luggage and then wait for her rental car. As usual, the airport and rental car employees seemed to take their own sweet time. They were unhurried and lackadaisical in unloading the baggage and in taking care of their customers. Their slowness never failed to infuriate her. She had wanted to arrive in Julian well before dark, hating to drive the narrow and curvy road at night.

She tuned the radio to a local station and listened to soft rock as she dealt with the heavy afternoon traffic. It seemed like only yesterday she had traveled the same road. Silently, she counted back the months that had gone by and was surprised that it had been fourteen months.

Just over a year ago, in mid May, she had received a telephone call from her best friend, Cathy, telling her that Donald had died suddenly in an accident at home. It had been a terrible shock to everyone, especially to Cathy and their twenty-two year old daughter, Karla Lori Chandler.

Lori had met her friend Cathy at the University of California in the mid sixties. Coming from small towns, they were both overwhelmed and vulnerable to the exuberant vitality of the thousands of students who had escaped from the confines of parental guidance. They were drawn together by fears that they had each gallantly tried to hide. Standing in line to matriculate and get their class schedules had led to a conversation and ended with them rooming together and becoming close friends. Though they